Farsighted
by Sapphire's Ink
Summary: Sherlock needs glasses and chaos follows. This is the drabble series to air any and all complaints against glasses you might have. I do not own the series Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes.
1. Sherlock gets glasses

**Farsighted.**

Sherlock started to notice the blurriness of things close to him, had started banging into the corners of walls. Normally, this wouldn't be of any consequence to him, which is why he let it continue for at least six months as his vision gradually worsened, but it was starting to affect his work.

"Sherlock, you need to see an eye doctor!" John repeated to the 'stubborn as sixty-three mules' man in front of him when he crashed into the third wall today. Wasn't even the corner this time – smack-dab in the middle.

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his temples. For John's troubles, Sherlock had received a stress headache instead of a pair of glasses. "For once, you may be right." Sherlock granted. "But, it won't be on any time when there's a case-"

John didn't let Sherlock finish his sentence. Instead, he came up to Sherlock and aided his friend at putting on his long black and grey coat. "We're going now." John declared, taking Sherlock by the wrist and dragging him away from his chair.

Sherlock literally whined when he was stuffed into the taxicab and taken to an eye doctor appointment.

* * *

The doctor stared in shock at Sherlock. "This man has serious vision problems. Why did you take so long to come here?" she asked.

Sherlock's hands darted out to keep him from bumping into someone or something. "I only came because this blasted interference kept disturbing my work."

The eye doctor, Ms Josephine, sighed and turned to John. "His glasses'll be ready in two weeks. Don't let him leave the house, I don't care what you have to do if he doesn't get a concussion."

So, for the next two weeks, Sherlock brooded. John refused to let him leave the house, even when Lestrade (or Leslie as Sherlock loved to taunt him) came with a very impressive case. At the very least, an Eleven.

"John," Sherlock whined. "It's a class-Thirteen case!"

"Not until your glasses come." John refused to succumb to the temptation of going out for a walk because whoever he left with Sherlock would eventually leave the room and Sherlock would escape to bang into walls and signposts.

Sherlock crossed his arms and sat down in his chair.

Sherlock plopped headphones over his ears and instead listened to death metal, violin music (he admitted he could appreciate Lindsey Stirling's work), or various other styles of music in different languages.

John relaxed into his chair. Scotland Yard was baffled with the class-Thirteen case (as Sherlock described it), and kept coming over to Sherlock's flat without cease to find out if he got his glasses yet.

It got to the point where a private detective went over to the eyeglasses place and ordered that they speed up the process for official reasons. They even left a hundred dollars.

In effect, two days later, Sherlock's glasses came.

* * *

Sherlock strode across the scene of the crime, his eyes bugging out in the lenses of his glasses.

"I truly forgot what seeing correctly was like." Sherlock remarked, swerving away from a nearby signpost.

John chuckled slightly, then walked straight into a brick wall.

On the other side of the wall, the crime scene John had been attempting to reach, Sherlock's condescending voice called out: "John, you might want to get your eyes checked."

 **Fin.**

 **Leave a review, thanks!**

 **-Sapphy Ink.**


	2. Funny experiments

**I got bored. Don't hate me.**

 **I DON'T OWN SHERLOCK.**

Sherlock held up the piece of plastic combined with metal specially made for him and scowled at it as if it had done him some great injustice.

Boring.

Instead of throwing it across the room on days like this when the bridge of his nose would hurt and the end of his ears would be so red it could be compared to a tomato, Sherlock would drip acid on his glasses, paint them, put it in a cup of tea, get a blowtorch and have fun, etc.

But then, his roommate with a psychosomatic limp and military service would come back and spoil the destructive source of amusement for the genius but extremely vain and childlike detective.

"SHERLOCK, DON'T EXPERIMENT WITH YOUR GLASSES!" John would furiously yell from the other room.

"YOU'RE NO FUN!" Sherlock would yell back furiously, then continue melting the lenses.

Simple explanation for what constantly happens in 221B Baker St? Okay. Sherlock constantly gets mad at his specs for no reason, his acquaintance keeps him from breaking the glasses (or at least tries to), and their landlady will clean up the mess, all the while insisting she's not their housekeeper as the two grown men-read-small children fight like desperate animals over a common female.

 **My sister laughed incessantly at this, so I decided to post it. Please leave a review.**


	3. To hell with the tiny hinges

**Farsighted chapter three.**

 **AN: FINE, IT'S A DRABBLE SERIES! If you have suggestions, PLEASE GIVE THEM TO ME AND I'LL WRITE THEM!**

Sherlock scratched his head, staring at the pile of murdered children in front of him.

"This one had epilepsy. This one had three other siblings. This one is nearsighted but he never knew it. This one is four years old. This one still goes to daycare, and this one still wears diapers."

Carefully, Sherlock looked over each of the children and came to his conclusion after scratching his head again. "They're all victims of child abuse, from the same person. They've all been kidnapped and killed, one swift dose of potent poison, Aconite, in a glass of milk, juice, or a Popsicle, and they never saw it coming."

"Can you give us any clues as to how to catch the murderer?"

"Yes. She's five feet, six inches, ambidextrous, a prodigy, also a victim of child abuse. Both parents were killed when she was young, and she was thrown into foster care. She's of Irish and Russian descent, has eczema, and brittle bone disease. In addition, judging by how many deep and brutal cuts this woman managed to make, she actually is a psychopath, never diagnosed though."

Lestrade hummed. "Should be enough to make an ID. But if you can tell what hair color..."

"She's naturally a redhead, but had dyed it black." Sherlock responded, staring at the nearsighted child's parka. "Now, if that's all..."

"Yes, you can leave." Lestrade responded, feeling sick.

Faintly, he could hear Anderson puking in one of the toilets.

* * *

Sherlock scratched his head once more, then pulled a lock of hair out of one of the hinges, annoyed by the fact that he needed to perform such an action.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?" John asked the genius detective.

Sherlock grumbled and finally snapped. "My hair keeps getting caught in the hinges. It's annoying."

"Then take off your glasses." John replied.

"No. I'l be susceptible to banging into walls." Sherlock replied.

John sighed. "Maybe you should have gone to the optometrist sooner, and your eyesight would not be this bad."

"I had work to do, John!" Sherlock protested. Another gust of wind brought his thick black locks back into the hinges, and Sherlock pulled away the strands of hair once more with a small wince.

John scoffed. "You were still being a baby."


	4. Why are my glasses always dirty? -1

**Farsighted chapter Four.**

 **AN: If you have suggestions for me to write in this story, _PLEASE_ GIVE THEM TO ME AND I'LL WRITE THEM!**

Sherlock ate spaghetti across from John when he noticed, not for the first time today, that his glasses were dirty again.

"John, can I have a cloth?" Sherlock asked, looking across the table where his comrade was sitting.

John pulled out a blue fuzzy folded-up cloth from his pocket. "Say, why don't you have your own?"

Sherlock looked up at John like he was an idiot and gulped down the meatball that had just been occupying his mouth and simply spoke: "Why would I carry around a cloth with me if you're here?"

John sighed. His argument was valid, he supposed.

* * *

Sherlock stood, shocked for a minute. A sociopath he'd just been looking for on the most recent case had just blown a hole straight through a bystander's head. Sherlock wasn't particularly bothered by this, as now they had sufficient proof to put him in jail for the rest of his life, but was angry when he noticed his glasses were leaking red.

"John?" Sherlock addressed the friend standing by Lestrade as he cuffed the serial killer and took away his gun.

"Yeah, Sherlock?" John sounded breathless. He hadn't seen such a violent murder in a long while.

"Can I use the cloth to wipe my glasses again?" Sherlock spoke.

John reached into his pocket and pulled out the fuzzy blue cloth. "Here." John responded, pushing the glasses into his friend's hand.

"Thanks." Sherlock took off his glasses and began wiping them until the red tinge was gone, staining the blue cloth a dark red which would eventually fade to brown. Sherlock grimaced. John would have to buy a new fuzzy blue cloth.

* * *

Experiments were particularly bothersome. The fumes kept getting in his face, which in turn fogged up his glasses.

Mrs Hudson had to raise the rent more than a few times for explosions, frightening both her and the new tenants for 221c.

Sherlock was currently working on his latest experiment, involving the cohesiveness of acid on bones when he mixed the acids badly, making everything fly everywhere, including straight through the window.

(Outside, an unsuspecting passer-by was calmly walking by when a large collection of green goop fell at his feet and started dissolving the sidewalk. He inched around it and began running.)

Unfortunately, Sherlock had more than a few burn scars and singed hair, but the worst of all was to his glasses, which had a piece go straight through the prescription lens.

He grimaced. He would have to order a new pair of glasses.


	5. Neutral chapter (containing J Moriarty)

**Farsighted chapter Five.**

 **AN: This is the place for glasses-wearers (or people who used to own glasses) to air any and all grievances concerning glasses, no matter how useful they are. If you wish for me to write anything, please give me suggestions.**

When Sherlock finally got his new pair of glasses two weeks later (no matter how much the police department bribed the glasses-makers), he put them on and sighed, appreciating the cool ridges around his ears and nose.

Sherlock left John at the counter to pay for the spectacles without so much as a 'thank you' to the woman at the counter.

Scotland Yard breathed a sigh of relief. Without Sherlock, half the city was practically on fire.

Sherlock had it all sorted out within the hour.

* * *

James Moriarty dipped his ring finger into his glass of water and moved it around the rim of the glass, enjoying the soft whirring sound it made.

"Moran, why has Sherlock been absent for the past two weeks?" Moriarty asked his loyal assassin servant.

"Files indicate he's farsighted. He needed a new pair of glasses." Moran replied.

Moriarty immediately thought up several hundred new scenarios for Sherlock to enjoy, mostly to do with glasses. More than half of them involved the glasses being shattered and Sherlock dying shortly afterwards.

"Thank you, Sebastian. You may go."

Moran nodded and left.

Moriarty smirked. He would have to up his game for the sweet consulting detective.

He licked his lips and smiled. How exhilarating.

* * *

The city was suspiciously quiet for several months.

"John," Sherlock whined, spectacles sliding down his nose, "It's been months since anyone's been murdered! I want a good case, and I want one now!"

"Normally people would be happy that no one's died for a while due to extenuating circumstances or external intervention." John remarked dryly. "Do you want me to go kill someone for you?"

"No, that would bee too predicable and boring." Sherlock replied and sighed.

"Do you want to learn how to play an instrument again?" John asked, still keeping his eyes on his book.

"No, I'll go brush up on my Swahili." Sherlock replied, getting up, pushing the spectacles up his nose, and retreating to his room. "Bye."

"Later." John answered, not taking his eyes off his book.


	6. It hit the floor

**Alternate chapter name: Something finally evades Sherlock's notice (and John is amazed)**

 **Trigger warning for cursing. It will be underlined so you can avoid at your convenience.**

Sherlock was hanging upside-down from the ceiling in his three-size-too-big pajama pants when John walked into the room. "... Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I want to see how long I can hang upside-down without my glasses falling off my face. So far we're at six hours." Sherlock giggled. It must have been from the excessive blood in his head.

"You know you're gonna have a hell of a headache when you get down from there." John sighed.

"... I am?"

"Yes! That's the way that works, because your body is working against gravity to pump blood to your brain normally! When you hang upside-down all the blood rushes to your head."

"That's stupid. If my body knows it's upside-down, why doesn't the blood push against gravity to get blood to my feet?"

"There's not as fine an interconnecting veins or system of capillaries in your feet as there is in your head." John groaned. Why did Sherlock have to be so smart, but so stupid at the same time?

"Stop thinking, John. You're thinking too loud." Sherlock sighed.

John stuck out a tongue and picked up a newspaper from the coffee table. He did a double-take at the picture. "... Sherlock, you're in the papers again."

"Moaning about my ignorance, are they?" the brunet sighed. "What is it now?"

"Actually, they're talking about your glasses." John handed the article to his best friend. Sherlock took it and concentrated his blurry eyes to read the article. "Apparently, your fan girls are going nuts about it."

Sherlock growled. "I'm a private detective. I'm not supposed to have a fan base."

"Too late."

Another growl. Sherlock crossed his arms and concentrated on a crack in the ceiling tiles. The notion that it would spontaneously grow and grow until a part of the ceiling collapsed on John was the only thing keeping him sane at the moment.

He didn't notice his glasses had fallen off his head five hours ago. (The crack in the ceiling didn't actually exist, either.)

He was still in that bat position when he went to sleep.

"Sherlock?" John asked the next day. The insomniac was still hanging upside-down by the ceiling.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock addressed his flatmate. His face was still pale as ever, no hint of redness or head rush anywhere.

"... Why are you still pretending you're a vampire?"

"I discovered that being right-side-up was more boring than being upside-down."

"... Your headache's going to be a fucker."

"Buzz off."

Sherlock, in an ever-present moment of wanting to mess with people, started signing the lyrics for 'I'm not a Vampire' when Lestrade walked in.

"Sherlock, can you take a look at this case file?" Lestrade handed the file to Sherlock.

The brunet stilled his lyrics, and looked over the case, this time translating and humming the song in French. He interrupted himself. "This is barely a three. I don't leave the flat for a six or higher."

He went back to signing the chorus to the Falling in Reverse song he probably learned at Narcotics Anonymous, resolutely ignoring the other detective. (Greg had set himself down on the couch with the intention of staying until Sherlock took the file.)

 **I WANT PROMPTS, PLEASE! IT WOULD BE VERY NICE TO RECEIVE PROMPTS, BECAUSE i'M NOT A WRITING MACHINE, Y'KNOW!**


End file.
